On Trust

& uncertainty & ice cream sandwiches

Hello, friend. It is a day full of wind and sun here in New Hampshire, and nights are starting to feel just the tiniest bit crisp again. It feels really good to write “newsletter” on my calendar and show up to this space with curiosity and tenderness, for myself, and for you.

Moving to a new place is beautiful, and hard. A dear teacher of mine (love you, Brea Fisher!) talked this week about the Zen concept of cycles— in our lives, going from 0 to 10, and then from 10 to 0, and around and around we go. I don’t know where you find yourself, but I am at a 0. Joyfully, humbly, messily. 0. A whole new town, where no-one knows me. A whole new set of work to do, the kind that reaches beyond the page.

Climbing back down the mountain, just to see another peak, feels exhausting, tumultuous, terrifying. And holy.

An experiment, a mantra, I’ve been holding close this week is: “I have no answers.” I repeat it when I’m walking, or turning over a decision in mind. To say, I actually cannot know 100% if this decision is right or wrong. But I can depend on my best guess.

I feel breath there. I feel forgiveness there.

There’s quite a few travel plans I have coming up that ask big leaps of faith. That ask for patience from those around me. That mean saying no to some important things, and yes to others. I’m hoping that on the other side of those journeys, I am a better, bigger person, with more room to show up for the ones I love. It’s also quite freeing to say: I can’t be sure what’s on the other side of them. I can’t be sure that I’ll see or understand why I needed to go.

A thing I catch myself doing when I take risks is to “half-way trust.” Or to only trust when a leap feels easy. But when it feels hard? Oooh, boy. That, I think, is where the practice is.

I really like the etymology of trust— Gothic trausti "agreement, alliance.” This week, it’s meant an alliance with myself, no matter what, and a surrendering to that which is beyond me.

Sometimes this poem makes me angry, like when the headlight of my car went out or the movers wouldn’t show up. The small icky things are NOT what I want! Sometimes, I do not want to surrender! But mostly, I like the poem. I find calm in it. It hangs behind my current office, in Galway’s own hand. I imagine him scribbling with no other option left— I love his underlines.

Ordinary and not-so-ordinary miracles:

• I’ve been eating ice-cream sandwiches at 4 p.m. every single day and I consider this sacred practice

• A note from a loved one saying, “Oh, hello you! I will be glad to meet you in the missing of yourself.”

• The Shania Twain documentary, then writing poems to Shania

• This interview with Aimee Seu: “I want to write poetry that feels like wearing fluffy soft pajama pants with an alligator skin, gold studded bra, a motorcycle jacket with too many zippers with the patch your best friend made you hanging off the back.” Love you, Aimee. Thank you for existing.

• This episode of The Slowdown.

• This song:

• This book, holy holy.

• This sunrise:

Some announcements:

• I had two poems in the Boston Review! You can read here.

• An official link to request poems— I can write for you or a friend or a loved one. No topic is too big or too small.

• I bought a fake plant. It was really freeing.

Okay, that’s all for now. I love hearing from each one of you. And if it feels right to share any part of this, I’m grateful beyond words.

With open arms and a wide heart,

Raisa